Chocolate and Cuckoo Clocks (32 page)

‘Thank God for that!' cried Master Rappaport. ‘We were worrying, weren't we, Nat?'

‘Definitely,' said the senior assistant. ‘We said to ourselves: suppose the suit comes out without a fashionable hump?'

‘It's killing me!' cried the Duke.

‘Good!' shouted Sam.

‘Wonderful!' shouted Nat.

‘You're sure it's fashionable?' gasped the Duke.

‘You could be a––a––a
king
!' cried Master Rappaport.

So the young Duke of Gloucester paid his bill, and, wearing his new armour, lurched horribly out into the street. And, as he walked, so the pain burned through his body; and, before very long, an unfamiliar darkness spread across his sunny face, and a new sourness entered his disposition, and angers he had never known, and rages he had never believed possible, racked the flesh beneath the steel.

And, suddenly, strangely, the world began to look a different place altogether; until, penetrating to the very innermost recesses of his soul, there fell across him on that soft spring day, a deep, black discontent, like winter.

46
True Snails Read (anag., 8,6)

S
quire
Walt Reeny
, Dr
Yesvile
, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about
True Snails Read
from the beginning to the end, keeping nothing back but the answers to 14 across and 23 down, and that only because there is treasure still to be lifted, I take up my pen in the year of grace 17— , and go back to the time when my father kept the Admiral Benbow inn, and the brown old seaman with the terrible nib-scar first took up his lodging under our roof.

I remember him as if it were yesterday, as he came plodding to the inn door, his twenty-four salt-caked volumes of the
Oxford English Dictionary
following behind him in a hand-barrow, his high reedy voice breaking out in that old sea-song that was to haunt my dreams:

‘Corpse at bottom of scrum! We hear

He's worth more than one small bier!'

I opened the door to him, and he threw himself into a chair, crying:

‘A palindrome? Yes, but this one's not for kids, me
hearties! It's peculiar.'

I stared at him.

‘I beg your pardon, sir?' I said.

‘I think,' said my father, from the dark recess of the bar, ‘he wants a tot. Of, if I am not mistaken, rum.'

The stranger smote the table.

‘Be 'ee a crosswordin' man?' he cried joyously.

My father smiled.

‘4, 4, 1, 4,' he replied, ‘according to the best fairy
stories. Not these days, though.'

The old sailor nodded, and, when my father went out for the bottle, drew me to him with an inky claw, so close that I could see the flecks of chewed quill stuck upon his lip, and smell the indiarubber on his nails.

‘Yonder,' he whispered excitedly, nodding towards the bar-window and the broad bay beyond, ‘lies the S.S.
Canberra
. I ships aboard 'er on the morrow tide.'

‘You are bound for the Crossword Cruise, sir?' I exclaimed. ‘You go in search of the Grand Prize? May I wish you the very best of luck?'

‘Luck?' cried the old man in a terrible voice.
‘Luck's a
chance, but ––––'s sure (
Housman
) (7)
. I makes my own luck, lad! See this 'ere diddy-box 'o mine?'

I nodded. It was a battered, brassbound thing, with
FLAT
CAP, INNIT?
engraved upon the lid.

‘Yes,' I said, proud of myself, ‘I noticed it immediately. It seemed such a queer shape for a hatbox.'

The old blood-threaded eyes gazed at me as if I were deranged.

‘Hatbox?' he muttered. ‘That be no hatbox, lad. That be the personal property o' the late –' and here his voice dropped to a cracked whisper ‘–
Captain Flint
!'

Letters swam in my head. Truth dawned.

‘It be why I doan need luck, see?' said the old sailor. His eyes grew moist with more than rheum. ‘Flint were the smartest puzzle dog I ever shipped with, lad. Flint knew the Latin handle of every plant that ever were, 'e 'ad the entire
Oxford Dictionary o' Quotes
to heart, 'e could spell backwards in fourteen lingos, 'e knew eight 'undred words wi' two letters in 'em! He dreamed in anagrams, did Flint, he saw acrostics in the stars. I remember one time we was becalmed off the Dry Tortegas, half-mad from heat and thirst and not a man among us capable o' getting 1 across in the
Sun
–
It
sat on the mat (3)
– and there were Flint on the afterdeck doing the
Telegraph
with 'is left hand and
The Times
with 'is right, while 'is parrot read him the
Guardian
so's he could do it in 'is head simultaneous!'

‘Remarkable!' I cried.

‘This rare genus had one eye (6),'
murmured the old man, blowing his nose fiercely on a red bandanna, ‘but has now
gone up to meet his dog (3)
.'

‘What, then, is in his box?' I enquired.

A dry hand closed over my own, so firmly that I could feel the sharp callus on a forefinger flattened by a million clues.

‘Ye seems a lad who would
look after his short mother
(4,3)
,' murmured the ancient. ‘A year or two back, just after Flint 'ung up 'is sextant, the P&O come to 'im wi' a proposition. Not a sea-dog from Maracaibo to the Cape as 'adn't 'eard tell o' Flint's magic powers, see, an' it were only a matter o' course afore—'

‘No need to go on, sir!' I cried. ‘I may be a stranger to the cryptic force, but I can divine a drift as well as any! You are telling me that Flint became the brains behind the Crossword Cruise! You are intimating that the incalculable treasure which awaits one brilliant, albeit peculiar, passenger comes with the solution to a Grand Prize Jumbo Puzzle set by—'

My companion spread his hands, nodding.

‘Did the good doctor fail to diagnose his digestive
problem? Sounds as though his friend Sherlock has!
(10),'
he said.

I pointed excitedly at the diddy-box.

‘And this can only mean,' I exclaimed, ‘that you have Captain Flint's papers, and therefore the answer to the Canberra's Prize Jum—'

The finger was across my lips. Its tremble was so stricken that my ear-ring shook.

‘
What is that strange tapping?
' he croaked.

I searched for the true meaning hidden in this cryptogram, knowing by now that
strange,
like
disturbed, confused, upset
, and so forth, betokened some anagrammatic interference. But what could I make from
tapping
? Was
gnippat
some rare Sumatran weevil,
pantpig
a Jacobean pervert,
I gnappt
the early working-title of something by that drunk Robert Louis Stevenson who lived in our small back room? It was while I was pondering this that I became aware of a noise beyond the window, as of a stick banging rhythmically against the wall.

I glanced at my companion, who had begun to gasp horribly.

‘We see nothing on this church bench! (5,3),'
he managed, finally, to sob.

I swivelled as the inn door burst open; and caught my breath. At first, I saw naught but the white stick that had thrust it wide: but soon thereafter, a squat, malign figure entered the room, a dreadful leer playing beneath the sightless eyes. He tapped his way to our table, and, reaching out a clammy hand, touched my face.

‘Pew,' he said. ‘I am confused.'

Wep?
I thought,
ewp?

‘I had been expecting an old friend but – ah!' he cried, as his hand groped on and suddenly found my companion, cringing in his chair, ‘I was not wrong.'

Whereupon he removed a folded scrap of paper from his smock, placed it carefully on the table between us, turned, and made his echoing way out again.

Since my companion seemed too stricken to move, I took the liberty of picking up the scrap and unfolding it. The eyes in the rigid face opposite now flickered in resigned enquiry.

‘Negro Topsy upside down? Don't say why! (5,4),'
I read.

He groaned horribly. A further, deeper shudder racked his ancient frame. His eyes rolled to white. As a drowning man throws up one sinking hand, he beckoned me close.

‘Skin –'
he wheezed, but the rest of the sentence ebbed.

‘Go on!' I urged. ‘I could not hear!'

He made a supreme and dreadful effort.

‘Skin game – for Cricket Cup?'
he gasped, finally.
‘(4,3).'

I racked such brain as I could muster. The ruin opposite, tongue lolling noiselessly behind cracked lips, could be no help.

And then, clouds parted, light burst through.

‘Hide box!' I shouted.

He nodded, just perceptibly.

I snatched up Flint's precious bequest, wrapped it quickly in a tablecloth, rose, and would have left forthwith to seek a spot of suitable impenetrability, had not the dying unfortunate clutched at my urgent sleeve in one last desperate bid.

He pulled, with terminal strength, my ear towards his lip.

‘Beware!'

His voice was like an on-shore breeze against the dry grass of the dunes.

‘Beware of what?' I said.

The tongue laid a last bead of moisture on the lip.

‘Of a seafaring man with one backward gel!'
he gasped.

And died.

Next Week's Episode
.
Hallmarked underwear? (4,4,6) Why
not, if the parrot's good as gold! (6,2,5)

47
One is One and All Alone

The last-minute cancellation of the Canadian visit does
of course leave a large gap in the diary which probably
cannot be filled at this late date. The Queen will be at
something of a loose end.

Palace spokesman

MONDAY

Got up, finally.

Sat at escritoire. Filled in all o's on front page of one's
Telegraph
. Put paperclips in long line. Pushed paperclips into little pile. Straightened paperclip and cleaned old bits of soap out of engagement ring. Bent paperclip back to original shape. Put paperclip back in little pile and tried to identify it with eyes shut.

Noticed tiny flap of wallpaper curled back from skirting just behind escritoire. Took one's Bostik out of escritoire drawer, put little smear on wall, little smear on wallpaper, pressed down wallpaper.

Picked old dried crusty bits off one's Bostik nozzle.

Read Bostik label. It is good for glass, wood, ceramics, light metal, leather, and plastic, whatever that is. If one gets it in one's eyes, one should wash it out immediately.

Saw fly go past.

Saw fly come back.

Watched wallpaper curl off wall again.

Turned on
Play School
. Noticed flat head on presenter. Summoned Lady Carinthia Noles-Fitzgibbon, who confirmed head not normally flat. She enquired if she should summon Master of the Queen's Ferguson. One told her no, one was perfectly capable of fiddling with one's apparatus oneself.

One was in fact quite grateful.

Took lift to West Loft. Keeper of the Queen's Smaller Gifts (West Loft Division) most helpful. One had, according to his inventory, been given a zircon-encrusted ratchet screwdriver by King Idris of Libya, following 1954 reciprocal trade agreement on depilatory soup. During Keeper's search for this item, put on alligator's head presented by Friends of Mbingele National Park on the occasion of one's Silver Wedding. A snug fit, but some tarnish on the molars.

Keeper rather taken aback upon return to find one in alligator's head and Mary Queen of Scots' execution frock, but recovered admirably. Having to suppress his distress at poor Professor Blunt's departure has matured him considerably; one may soon allow him to fondle the odd corgi.

Returned to one's apartment.
Play School
now finished, so put on one's husband's video recording of yesterday's
Postman
Pat
. It is now Mrs Goggins the Postmistress who has a flat head.

Applied screwdriver to hole in back of one's apparatus. Blue flash. Zircons all blown off. One's husband burst in, ranting: apparently, one's husband's Hornby Dublo layout had fused itself to nursery floor.

One's husband now at worse loose end than ever, stormed off in foul mood to put up shelf in garage. Has been talking about putting up shelf in garage since Suez.

Lunch. First lunch alone since October, 1949.

Moulded mashed potatoes into Grampians, poured gravy in to stimulate Loch Rannoch, cut pea in half to make two ferries. Had ferry race by blowing down one's straw. Left-hand pea won.

Knighted it with fork.

After lunch, one's husband stormed in again, carrying gold claw-hammer (Ghana, 1962), diamanté pliers (Melbourne, 1968), set of inlaid mother-of-pearl ring-spanners (Tongan gift on occasion of PoW's first tooth), and shouting
Where
one's bloody zircon-encrusted screwdriver?

Stormed out again with rather nice Louis XV rosewood side-table, muttering
Soon chop up this tarty frog rubbish, make
bloody good plank, this, rip a couple of brackets off that poncey
Tompian clock upstairs, shelf up in two shakes of a CPO's whatsit.

Fusebox Poursuivant arrived to repair apparatus. Commanded to remain and play I-Spy. One won.

Bed at 8.15, with ocelot-bound
Fifty Things To Do On A
Wet Day
(New Zealand, 1978). Made flute out of old sceptre.

Played
God Save One
.

TUESDAY

Woke early, made hat from
Telegraph
.

Drew up list of all one's acquaintances with spectacles. Compared it with list of all one's acquaintances with flat feet.

Watched one's husband rush in clutching bloodstained thumb, shouting
Where bloody Dettol, where bloody Elastoplast?
Watched him rush out again.